


Marks

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Biting, M/M, Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 11:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3527678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coward deeply appreciates the mark the Blackwood leaves upon him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_me09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_me09/gifts), [viceindustrious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious/gifts).



It is a habit. 

A small, easily unnoticeable habit, that only those with the most discerning eyes would pick up on, would consider to possibly be a tell, a tic, a gesture of nervous self reassurance. A casual lifting of his hand, fingers pressed lightly to the base of his throat, a slight caress of fabric, as though he is adjusting the lay of his cravat ever so slightly, a swallow, adam's apple bobbing inconspicuously beneath layers of fabric. Small actions, repeated throughout the day, throughout the weeks, until he is often unaware he has even done so.

Unaware, until he feels the heavy, heated pressure of Blackwood's eyes upon him, and the faint pressure of his own fingers against his neck, and has to fight to keep from blushing at the knowledge in Blackwood's eyes. 

There is a mark, below the silk, round, the skin reddened, diffusing to dull shades of purple and yellow at the edges, puffy around the indentations of teeth. A mark that aches when he touches it, that stings in the morning when he shaves, that catches his eye in the mirror before he finishes dressing and leaves him caught, helpless, staring at it. It's lurid, uncouth, a sign of wantonness, as Blackwood whispers to him at night, in the dimming light. Whispers to him, with lips left reddened and swollen from his work, from renewing the mark on him every night, like a brand, a scar, a tattoo. 

Coward comes to him every night, as soon as he can, which is often far later than he would like. Blackwood is somehow always waiting for him, always there before him, impatient, hungry. Sometimes he presses Coward up against a wall, Coward's slender wrists caught in one hand above their heads, the other sliding possessively along the stretched out length of Coward's body until it hooks under the curve of his ass, pulling him up, and in, to press against Blackwood's thigh, held there and kissed, teased, wound up further an further until he is mindlessly rutting against Blackwood's leg, breaths away from coming in his trousers, and sometimes Blackwood lets him, stills while Coward shudders against him, gasping breaths shockingly loud in the stillness of the room, hands clutching uselessly at the air as he squirms in Blackwood's grip. 

Lets him, and then brings his skin heating, blood rushing to his cheeks, his neck, down the fair skin of his chest until he thinks he may die, blushing, as Blackwood slides his hand around, presses them against the wet spot on Coward's trousers until whimpers at the wet feel of cooling come against his skin. Is sure he will die of mortification when Blackwood slides his hand up, and then under the waistband of his trousers, slides his hand down into the slick mess, barely touching Coward's cock, and brings his hand, streaked with pale, sticky lines, to Coward's face. It's unnecessary for him to say anything, issue any command; Coward's mouth opens willingly, his tongue flicking against Blackwood's fingers as he cleans them, his gaze trapped by the impassivity in Blackwood's expression, by the possibility of a flicker of disgust. After, Blackwood will lay him out on the bed, tilt Coward's head back and satisfy himself with the delicate skin of Coward's neck, until Coward is once more squirming and panting and hard, ready for anything Blackwood might desire.

Sometimes he does not allow Coward the relief of coming; instead, withdraws his leg and his hand, stepping closer and wider until his legs bracket Coward's, press him so tightly to the wall he cannot thrust his hips against Blackwood's, and brings his hand up to fist in Coward's hair, drawing his head back and to the side until that spot, that delicious juncture of bones and fluttering pulse, is exposed. Sets his mouth to it, and brings the faded shade of rose back up to a lurid, vivid red, Coward's breath hitching at every increase in pressure, desperate whines and moans escaping him as he fights for any leeway to move, to touch, to press himself even further into Blackwood. Fights uselessly, until Blackwood deems himself satisfied with the ravishment of Coward's neck, at which point he releases Coward's wrists and steps back, just enough to give Coward room to sink down to his knees as the hand in his hair pushes at him, while Blackwood's other hand is busy undoing his trousers, pulling out his cock so Coward can make use of his 'pretty whore mouth', as Blackwood so eloquently puts it, and he does. Wraps his lips around Blackwood's cock and gets a little of his own back, sliding his mouth up and down a little too gently, the flicks of his tongue over the head of Blackwood's cock just a little too light, the pressure when he catches his teeth in the sensitive divot right under head just a little too firm, until Blackwood growls at him, tightens his hand in Coward's hair and brings his other to bear, cupped under Coward's chin as he holds him still, open, and fucks into the wet heat of Coward's mouth, too fast and hard and deep until Coward is half choking, gagging as every other thrust hits the back of his throat, spit and come sliding down his chin, every breath and gasp and swallow making the mark at the base of his throat burn more. 

Often, they manage to make it to a bed before Blackwood begins his assault on Coward's body, though that doesn't mean matters are any more leisurely or restrained. Blackwood strips himself, impatiently, while Coward attempts to undress as quickly while lying on the bed – he's learned quickly not to attempt to stand to undress, for Blackwood will simply seize him and toss him back onto the bed, a thing which Coward begins to understand, perhaps a little, when he see how Blackwood's eyes catch on him when he raises his hips to shimmy out of his trousers. Sometimes Coward isn't quick enough, and Blackwood too impatient, and some article of clothing stays on, denying Coward of that extra sensation of more of Blackwood's skin against his, which is a tragedy. 

Blackwood rarely allows him much preparation, though, to be honest, at this point Coward's need for such things is drastically reduced, a fact he is not sure to be proud or ashamed of. A few, rare times, Blackwood has pressed Coward's legs up, further, further, until his ass is fully exposed, before lowering his face, breath ghosting across Coward's skin before that first slick, burning touch of Blackwood's tongue, and every time, the sound that tears out of him is positively unholy. Coward begs, mindlessly, too overwhelmed to cling to any vestiges of shame, nonsensical babbling that makes Blackwood smile, or smirk, he can't tell which is dragging up the corners of Blackwood's mouth, but the short huffs of laughter that cool the dampened skin of his perineum cause Coward's voice to jump in pitch, catch and stutter into incoherent moans.

He's already leaking drops of come by the time Blackwood looms over him, the head of his cock pressing against Coward's hole, pressing in, thick and hot and so fucking good that Coward can't even think, can't form a single coherent thought besides more, and more, and more, _please_ , and Blackwood, Blackwood pushes Coward's thighs higher, closer, leans in and fastens his teeth to the bruised skin of Coward's neck, and obliges. Fucks into him, faster and harder with each stroke, rocking Coward back and forth between the sharp, bright pain at his throat and the filling, maddening pleasure at his ass, relentless until Coward tenses and shouts, convulsing through an orgasm almost as painful as it is pleasurable, sensation that tips over into pain as Blackwood continues, headless of Coward's whimpers and ineffectual struggling and broken whispers to stop, please, stop, it's too much, _please_ , continues both his brutal, forceful fucking and his sucking, hungry biting until he groans around his mouthful of Coward's flesh and thrusts one final time, shuddering as he comes, teeth almost breaking skin as every muscle tightens in response. Coward can't quiet the helpless whimpers that accompany his every inhale, and almost screams when Blackwood finally withdraws, but his fingers creep up to press into the bloodied mark at his throat with a sense of deep satisfaction all the same. 

Other times, Blackwood takes times to renew the mark before anything else, pushing Coward down onto the settee before kneeling over him, legs spread wide, the slightest pressure against Coward's thighs as Blackwood's hands make quick work of removing his neckwear, unbuttoning his shirt. Coward tilts his head back, eyes heavily lidded, aided by the gentle press of Blackwood's fingers against his chin, fingers that slide down the taut line of Coward's throat with something almost like reverence before they slide back up and curl around the back of Coward's neck, short nails stirring the fine hairs and sending shivers down Coward's spine. Blackwood leans forward, down, and teases, rubs his face along the curves of Coward's neck, breathing in deeply and letting out, long, lingering sighs of pleasure as Coward shudders in response, letting his lips press every so lightly against Coward's skin, Blackwood's bottom lip catching as he moves upward, exposing the barest touch of teeth. Some times it escalates into chaste kisses to his neck, into tiny, fleeting nips that briefly redden the skin, before it returns to less tantalizing touches. It goes on like this, the slow, sensual nuzzling, for ages, until Coward is clutching at the cushions, tiny breaths of sound escaping him with every anticipated nip. 

Finally, finally, Blackwood moves, settles in to explore nothing more than that alluring hollow at the base of Coward's throat, slowly, carefully mouthing at it, licking and sucking and nibbling until it is inflamed, tender and oversensitive, Coward shifting restlessly and whining pleadingly for more, for a finish, for pain. Blackwood settles his teeth a bit firmer, and begins the game, winding Coward up tighter and tighter as each bite, each lingering suck, is a little harder, a little longer, a little more, more, more, until he is biting as savagely as a beast, and Coward is only crying out in pleasure, in desperate desire, rather than fear or pain, hands long ago having given up on the cushions and risen to clutch at Blackwood's arms, his back, sliding up to his neck and finally curling in his hair, straining to drive more from him. Blackwood spreads his knees a little further, until he is resting on Coward's lap, a weight for Coward to thrust into, as Blackwood rocks against him, hand sliding down to fumble with their trousers, until both their cocks are free, sliding slickly against each other, startling groans from both, Coward's a desperate sound on the quiet air, Blackwood's muffled and vibrating against Coward's neck. He tears his mouth away from Coward's neck as he comes, to press his forehead against the juncture of jaw and neck, his panting breaths both heating and cooling the wetly shining skin of the hollow of Coward's throat, and Coward clutches his head even closer as he rises closer to Blackwood, his orgasm a long, strung out moment of tension, desperately striving towards Blackwood's body. 

Thus have things been, and thus they will stay, and in the quiet, hazed moments before he falls asleep, or after he has come, or when he touches his neck in public, Coward thinks it is perfection. 

*

One night, Blackwood doesn't bite him. 

It begins as any other encounter, and they fuck as they have many times before, but after, when Blackwood would spend his time marking Coward, he instead brushes his lips over the spot and simply … rolls over. Tugs Coward closer, pressed against him, and closes his eyes. 

Coward doesn't know what to think. 

It's just a bite. Just a little bit of oddness that has been steady and unchanging and _there_ since almost the beginning, but it doesn't really mean anything in itself. It's just a habit. 

The next day, when he puts his fingers to his neck, it's not quite as sore, and it is more than foolish that it freezes him where he stands, that is causes his words to falter and his hands to tremble, is it not? 

Except again, that night, after Blackwood has pinned him to the wall and had his way with him, there is a brush of fingers over the purpling mark on Coward's neck, but nothing more. Coward sleeps poorly, wondering. 

When it happens again, he almost gathers his courage to ask, to comment, but some fear in the back of his mind stops him. When Blackwood has fallen asleep beside him, he takes that fear out and examines it, curiously. 

Had you asked him a few days ago if that mark meant something to him, the answer would have been yes, but the why of it would escape him. Now, with the color fading more and more each day, slowly, but not slowly enough, the fear that grew in its place had a name. 

Abandonment.

He'd thought – not in so many words, but – he'd thought that Blackwood was placing _his_ mark on him. That it was an act of possession, that it was to warn off any who might consider Coward's company. If he can no longer be bothered, does it mean he is losing interest? That his attentions may wander to someone else, or may have already done so? That he no longer cares if someone comes along and tries to take Coward off his hands?

And some other, small, hopefully part of his mind had thought that maybe, just maybe, that it was … a commitment. A pledge, renewed over and over and over, every night, that Coward was wanted. Desired. Possessed. 

Coward stares at Blackwood's sleeping form and wonders, worries, that he is losing his luster. 

*

A week goes by, and then most of another. When Coward looks in the mirror, there is only the faintest tinge of yellow, a pale shadow of a bruise. Other days, he has looked away quickly, pretending there is still a mark worth having; today, he stares, breath thickening in his throat. Blackwood may still fuck him, but something has obviously changed, and Coward can only wish that he knew why. Can only wish that he knew how much longer it would take for even that to change, for Blackwood's fading interest to take form in other ways. 

He presses his fingers to his throat, and feels nothing. 

*

He goes to Blackwood at night, still, as he has for so long now. Tonight, however, Blackwood is still dressed as though to go out. Coward hesitates. 

"It's time," Blackwood says, pleasantly, with a faint smile, and presses his fingers to the base of Coward's throat. "We're going somewhere."

The places Blackwood takes him is not in a … nice part of town, and looks supremely unprepossessing from the outside. The small entry way and desk conform to the rather grotty image Coward had formed, but the room beyond that, the room the man had nodded them onto after Blackwood gave his name, was something else entirely, as well appointed as any high class shop.

Blackwood turns to him and begin tugging at his cravat, and while Coward opens his mouth to protest, a single look from Blackwood silences him. He stays silent as Blackwood exposes his neck, as Blackwood looks through the flat box the man offers him and selects something small and metallic, as Coward is directed to sit and tilt his head so and look so and try not jerk please, sir, as cool fingers pinch the skin at the hollow of his throat. 

A moment later, he begins to understand, begins to hope again, finally lets out the breath that's felt caught in his chest all week. His fingers slide up of their own accord.

Blackwood catches them. "No, darling," he says, gently, as Coward gazes up at him, faintly dazed. "We need to be … careful with it, until it's healed," and there's a look in his his eyes that is almost gentle, almost possessive. 

"Yes, milord," Coward murmurs, and shivers at the way the two small metal bars pull against the skin of his neck.


End file.
